There is a light breeze in the graveyard as the moon shines brightly. It is absolutely silent, and the air was thick with fog. The place was entirely deserted. Or, almost entirely.

A girl is sitting on a gravestone. She couldn&#8217;t be older than 14, and she was stunningly pretty. Her hair was medium length, navy blue and perked up at the ends. Her skin was smooth, and her eyes were large and baby blue. She had a cigarette pursed between her lips, and she lit it with a silver flip lighter.

Such a young girl, alone, in a creepy graveyard so late, she must be so scared. She must feel so terrified, so fragile.

Yet, surprisingly, she didn&#8217;t look scared. She didn&#8217;t look at all terrified and she definitely didn&#8217;t look fragile. In fact, with both her fists tightly clenched, and a broken piece of wood lying on the floor next to her, she looked ready to fight.

Who is this girl? Why is she sitting in a graveyard, at two in the morning, ready to fight? Why did she look like she was born to be in that place at that exact time? Almost as though it was her destiny. Her calling.